


carry you with every breath I take

by MissSunFlower94



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Dream Conversations, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Platonic Soulmates, Post-156, Zolf as a Cleric of Sasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/pseuds/MissSunFlower94
Summary: Zolf Smith has never had particularly subtle dreams.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Zolf Smith
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	carry you with every breath I take

**Author's Note:**

> Because we're all here for more closure between these two, yeah?

Zolf Smith has never had particularly subtle dreams.

Even without divine interference, Poseidon reaching out to him on a _boat_ in a _storm_ had been par for the course, as far as symbolism went. The dreams about Feryn have always been painful, vivid, and incredibly predictable – as if his subconscious is controlled by some outside influence that knows exactly how best to hurt him.

His dreams about Sasha since Hamid and Azu returned are the same way:

He’s in Other London, calling her name, searching for her in the rubble of an exploded hut. By the time he can uncover her, she’s not breathing and no prayer – to Poseidon or otherwise – will give him the power he needs to bring her back.

He’s on the channel – he’s _in_ the channel – and he was never an excellent swimmer even before he lost a limb. Now, with every wave and flash of lightning he can see her getting swept further and further away from him, until she disappears completely.

He’s in Paris and she’s been crushed by an arrogant, brainless man who has never once considered the consequences of his actions. Faced with the decision of hurting Bertie or saving Sasha, in his fury he chooses the former, and now it’s his fault she’s gone.

He’s underground and she’s in pieces on a medical table and he’s certain that this time, _this_ time, he can save her. He dumps every bit of divine energy he can channel into her – instead undoing the necromancy that kept her stabilized and, well, it’s no surprise how that ends.

He tries and he tries and he tries. And he loses her, again and again and again.

So when - not long after being given her letter - his dreaming self is confronted with a long hallway of pillars, at its end a figure lying prone on a too-familiar metal table, Zolf is not terribly surprised.

If anything, he’s angry again. She’d _lived_ , dammit! She’d got to live - live a longer, fuller life than the rest of them were likely to now - and she’d got to leave them a goodbye. A proper goodbye, a _good_ goodbye, the kind he had resigned himself to never having. He’d gotten the whole damn closure thing, so why won’t his feelings close with it?

Zolf’s not an idiot; he knows it doesn’t work that way. That doesn’t mean he can’t be pissed about it. Grieving shouldn’t be a skill, but still he feels it’s one he’ll never master.

At least the new scenery is welcome, if unusual, as is the realization as he walks that he is, in fact, walking. He’s had every variation of legs - or lack thereof - in these dreams, not always directly correlating with what he would have had at the time, but this is the first time it’s matched what he has in the present.

The Sasha on the table looks different, too, once he reaches her. She looks young - she’ll always look young to him - but there are scars he doesn’t recognize on her face, as well as a section of her hair that has gone as white as his own.

She’s not in pieces the way she was in Paris. She doesn’t even look injured, against all odds like whatever took her had been peaceful. Zolf looks back up at the hall they’re in, and bitterly notes that the architecture around them is distinctly Roman. The bloody symbolism falls into place.

She may have lived after landing in Rome, but it doesn’t change that he’s lost her.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping as he looks back at Sasha, wondering what exactly he is meant to do now. If the idea of her dying peacefully after a long life in Rome is meant to make him feel better, he wouldn’t be in this dream to begin with. He reaches out, absently brushing the white, dead hair off her forehead.

Her eyes open slowly, one eyebrow quirking up as she meets his gaze calmly. “You better not be plannin on kissing me.”

Zolf _yelps_ , stepping backward so quickly he trips over his legs and tumbles back onto his ass - too startled to even curse.

Sasha – awake, _alive_ Sasha – sits and stretches, cracking her neck as she lowers her arms, and gives him a look that might have appeared blank to anyone who didn’t know her. Zolf can see the amusement in her eyes and hears the smile in her voice when she says, “All right there, boss?”

He stands, not taking his eyes off of her, unsure how to answer that. Part of him wants very much to hug her, but he can’t bring himself to get any closer.

At his silence, the traces of mirth fade away and she rubs the back of her neck. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re not, actually my- but like, kinda always liked callin you boss. You know, as a… endearment or… whatever… yeah…”

This is the worst of it, he decides. How much it _sounds_ like her. It was bad enough in the letter, to see her familiar cadence survive through centuries and translations. Worse now for his memory to conjure up her voice when he knows he’ll never hear it again.

“I think I preferred the dreams where you died,” he says flatly.

That throws her. “Right. R-Right- yeah. Still proper charming, aren’t you?”

“Well, what am I supposed to say right now?” He retorts, surprise melting back to his earlier frustration. “What am I supposed to do with- with any of this? You’re _dead_ , Sasha.”

“Well, I… yeah.”

“You died thousands of years ago, and I’m supposed to just have a pleasant conversation when I have to wake up and you’ll _still be gone_?” Zolf stops, closing his eyes for a moment and steadying his breathing. “I can’t. Look, I- I don’t know what you want, but I can’t do… whatever this is.”

When he opens his eyes she’s still there, because whatever control he might have in this dream he apparently can’t wake himself from it. She doesn’t say anything, her expression hard to read, even for him.

The silence unnerves him, the same way her voice does; it’s too _real_. Too close to silences he’d shared with her when they were part of a team together, the ones that would have felt awkward or uncomfortable if they were with anyone else. Unlike those silences, he feels compelled to break it. To say anything.

“…D- _Did_ you want something?”

It’s a ridiculous thing to ask - she’s a dream. However different from his usual dreams this may be, it doesn’t change that it isn’t really her.

But Sasha takes it at face value, pausing a second longer, as though she didn’t expect to find herself in his dream any more than he did and hadn’t prepared what to say. “Well, I guess I wanted to tell you that I forgive you.”

Zolf blinks, momentarily at sea. “I- you- what?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean- I figured that was something you’d been wantin to say to me for a while - that you’re sorry for leaving and all that - so I thought I’d cut to it.” She laughs, a bit of the nervous energy he remembers creeping back into her voice. “Or, you know, maybe not. Suppose I don’t really know if you regretted that-”

“I did,” He interrupts, quickly and quietly and desperately, already stumbling over the hundreds of apologies he had drafted for her in the last 18 months, when he had still thought he might have the chance to use them. “I did. I- I do. Sasha, I am… I’m sorry. I never should have-”

“No, I- it’s- it’s fine.” She’s stumbling, too, neither of them having ever been great with words at the best of times. “No, I- That’s- that’s what I’m trying to say, right?” She pauses again, regaining composure before continuing. “Because, the thing is… for so long the only thing I cared about was gettin away from Barrett, you know? Didn’t really think about what happened outside of that; didn’t really expect to live long enough for it to matter, honestly.

“Then I met you, and at first the job was just somethin that got me out of London - but that changed, too, the longer I stuck around. I got to- to really caring. First about you all and then about everything else. And caring is _awful_.”

She makes a face like she’s bitten into something sour and it’s such a _Sasha_ expression that Zolf has to laugh - choked as the sound may be. Sasha softens, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

“It… hurts, and it’s hard - but it’s good, too. It’s better, so much better, than what I’d been before, and you… you gave me that, Zolf. You gave me something to hope for and- and work toward that wasn’t just survivin. And… I kept on that, even after you left.” She gives a quiet laugh of her own, as tearful as his. “So, like, in that way it kinda felt like you were always with me.”

“Sasha…” he says, because he doesn’t have anything else to say.

She waves hand, dismissing the words he can’t find. “So I- I think what I want is to return the favor.”

His brows draw together, confused, and when she doesn’t immediately elaborate he hesitantly asks, “… W-what does that mean?”

“Well, it’s like you said: You’re goin to wake up and I’ll be gone, yeah?” Her smile wobbles a little, but holds. “But the people there, with you, I… I can’t be there. So I need you to look after them for me.”

Those words feel louder than anything else they’ve said, feel as though they echo through the hall and are spoken directly in his head at the same time. It’s enough for Zolf to find his voice. “Sasha, I’m not- you _know_ I'm not the person to- I mean, just _look_ how well I’ve done with that.” He gestures, vaguely indicating both her and the whole mess that is the waking world awaiting him.

Sasha sighs, her impatience both painful and comforting in its familiarity. “I’m not saying _be perfect_ , Zolf. Everyone’s got a… a whole mess of issues, I know. Hamid’s feeling like he’s got the world on his shoulders, and Azu has so much more guilt than she’ll let anyone see, and Wilde- well, you know how he is. But these guys… they’re our family, right? Like, a proper family that really cares about you and- and _shows_ it as much as saying it.” She pauses and sniffs. “You- you know you gave me that, too.”

Again, Zolf wants to hug her but he feels as though he can barely breathe, let alone move. _Useless_ , still, in spite of everything she’s said.

As if she can read the thought, Sasha shakes her head, somewhere between fond and exasperated. “And you’re more important to them than you think, all right? Not your magic or your healing or the mission or- or any of that, either. They care about _you_.”

Sasha gets off of the table, lowering herself so that they’re closer to eye level, and it occurs to Zolf that this Sasha _is_ older than he remembers. This Sasha might very well be older than him.

She puts her hands on his shoulders. “And I know you care about them, too, Zolf. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know that, if I didn’t know you’d do anything for them - like you did for me.”

Zolf opens his mouth, wanting to argue again - he’s not worth that faith, he’s proven again and again that he isn’t - but his throat has closed up and his vision blurs. He isn’t sure if she moves first or he does but suddenly his paralysis is gone and his arms are around her and she’s dropped to her knees to lessen the distance as she returns the hug.

They’re silent for a few seconds and, of all things, he finds himself wishing both of them had been this comfortable with affection when she’d been, well, alive. It’s… nice. An extension of the silences they used to share, carrying the same feeling of understanding that he always had with her.

“You’re right,” he says at last, his voice rough. “Caring is _awful_.”

“Yep,” she says.

“Really wish I didn’t.”

“Yep,” she repeats. “But you do."

“Yeah… yeah, I do.” He shifts to rest his cheek on the top of her head - she’s _just_ shorter than him in this position. “I… I miss you.”

Her arms tighten around him. “Miss you too, boss,” she says quietly. “But I’m not- death’s not- I’ve learned it doesn’t end things. Not really. You- you’ve still got me with you, right - even if you can’t, you know… see me.”

“Not much different than before, then,” Zolf says, dry humor working its way to the surface.

She laughs, pulling back to look at him again. Her eyes are red, but her smile is one of the biggest he’s ever seen. “Yeah. Yeah, like that.”

He echoes her smile for a second, not managing to hold it as he gets the cold, unshakeable feeling that whatever this dream wanted to give him, he’s been given it… and now there’s no reason to continue. Sasha closes her eyes for a second in almost a wince, and he knows she knows it, too.

“Right. Well,” she says, pulling away further, halfway into standing up. “Cheers, boss. I- I guess…”

Those were her last words before, he remembers. Her last sentiment that he went and dismissed, leaving without as much as a backward glance. He’s not making that same bloody mistake again.

“Cheers, Sasha,” he says softly, putting a hand on her arm. “I’ll… I’ll keep- keep an eye on everyone f- for you.”

It’s not a promise, it’s not perfect, but it’s what he can give her. What her memory deserves.

Her smile blooms again. She places her hands on either side of his face, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Warmth spreads from the touch, traveling through to the tips of his fingers and ends of legs and Zolf is too surprised to say or do anything other than squeeze his eyes shut and try not to cry. Or cry _more_ , in any case.

“Thanks, Zolf,” Sasha says and again he _feels_ the words as much as hears them. “See you later.”

He feels her straighten, dropping her hands, but the warmth is still fading slowly, draining out of him like water. He keeps his eyes closed until it’s gone completely. Until he knows he’s alone again.

As expected, when he opens his eyes he’s awake in his room. The light tells him it’s still a few hours before proper sunrise, and his face is wet with tears.

Zolf lays there for several minutes, letting his breathing even out again, trying to process what on _earth_ that was, what he’s meant to do with it. When he has some measure of control over himself he sits, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

An echo of the warmth he had felt when she kissed his head brushes over his skin. He pulls his hand away, surprised, and looks down at Feryn’s ring. Feryn’s Harlequin ring.

In the dim, early morning light he finds himself studying the signet. A spade, for his family’s faction, with two swords piercing the suit in an _x_ \- something he’s since learned every faction’s ring has in common.

For the first time he wonders if they aren’t meant to be swords, but daggers.

_You’ve still got me with you._

Zolf brushes his thumb over the design, focusing on the warmth. It’s faint but familiar. The warmth that comes with his magic, with calling forth… whatever force is behind his new faith. The warmth of that hope.

 _You gave me something to hope_ _for._

_I think I want to return the favor._

He passes his thumb over the ring again, before raising it briefly, almost reverently, to his lips.

_Look after them for me._

“All right, Sasha,” he says to the ring, to the room, to himself. “All right.”


End file.
